June 27, 2009
Early this morning while brushing my teeth, I hear from the kitchen “Potrick, Potrick we have no food!!! What can we eat?”
“Yes dear, I’ll be right there to see what we might have for breakfast.” Another day, another crisis, I’m sure there has to be something we can have.” Opening the refrigerator with ease and scavenging around I saw no milk (so the kasha option is out), no yogurt, no cottage cheese, no bread, no fruit, no pirogue, a little remaining Italian sausage. “Yeah there isn’t much here Irina.” Then I spied the eggs, we won’t starve or have to eat sausage, ginger root, beets, buckwheats, carrots, cucumbers, or hotdogs and ketchup this morning!!! “Irina how about a cheese omelet?” I yelled.
“That would be ok”
So I opened the refrigerator with ease and started gathering the makings for the omelet.
I digress but you might wonder why “I opened the refrigerator with ease”. Well 2 years ago when we returned to Russia we were told about “the accident”. Somehow the handle that opens the refrigerator got knocked off the door. I knew when be bought this “top-of-the-line German production single compressor refrigerator” that the weak link was the handle design. And my fears were realized; all that remained of the handle was an inch broken plastic detruding from the door. One could still open the door by pulling on this plastic stub. But if the door was shut just before you again attempted to open it the sealing system that sucks the door closed required some real leveraging to get the door back open. For two years we called and searched everywhere trying to get the problem fixed. However it seemed the service people for this refrigerator had all left Russia and returned to Germany. But then before returning to Russia this time Vicky, who also got tired of trying to open the door when she was over visiting Mamula, found the parts supplier and ordered the handle. A quick three months later we received the parts and I got it installed, not bad for Russia. Of course they cheated us and said we had to buy both handles, the one for the frig which was broken and the one for the freezer which was OK. So I guess we just have a back handle in readiness for the next accident. But now it truly is a small pleasure to open the refrigerator door with one finger and peruse around for something to eat.
Back to the breakfast crisis; hidden back on the top shelf I found tortillas, we had a little cheese and some hot peppers so it was going to be a “South Texas Breakfast Burrito” morning. For just scrounging around for anything to eat it was delicious. We enjoyed a rare treat and discussed what we were going to do about solving our real food crisis.
(Irina’s comment: all Pat writes is so much exaggerated, it is all just for fun and interesting reading but not the exact reality of life of course)
“Potrick, Mamula got this letter about a food package for veterans. Maybe we will go see what it is and get it.”
Sounded like some kind of Russian meals-on-wheels without the wheels, but what the heck, it’s free lets check it out. “OK, lets go see what they have. By the way, what is this for some kind of monthly giveaway they just started?” I asked.
“No, they are just doing it to celebrate the start of the Great Patriotic War. Probably some politician’s trick.”
“That’s weird,” I thought. Generally they celebrate the end of the war and victory, not the starting of wars. “Irina lets see there was the 1st war with Germany, the war with the Japanese, probably 10 wars with the Turkish, the Napoleonic war, Peter the Great’s war with Sweden, somekind of little war with the Finns. If we get food packages for the start of every war we could get a package every month or more, that could really cut down our food expenses!!!” Unfortunately Irina didn’t think that the politicians would go that far. Oh well lets get what we can and we got ready to go.
I was waiting at the door with my shoes on ready to go (since slippers are the only acceptable foot wear worn in the apartment the last thing before leaving is to dawn one’s shoes at the door), “Irina, are we going or what?” I yelled.
“Potrick, I can’t find Mamula’s passport! I’ve looked everywhere. Maybe it was stolen!”
A couple of nanny’s ago we had one that stole Mamula’s “workbook”, that is we think she stole because it has been missing ever since. A person’s “workbook” is one step above or one step below one’s passport, depending upon what you need at the time. The workbook is an old Soviet record of every place and length of time you worked. In Soviet days and up until it was recently replaced with computer records it was very, very important because your pension was calculated from its entries. Its loss was not so terrible since Mamula wasn’t going to add any more work time in the book and her pension was already on the pay records. But whoever took it might also be able to somehow claim benefits under Mamula’s pension. Her passport was much more important to us now since any time you have to interface with the bureaucracy the passport must be presented.
Mentally rounding up the usual list of suspects, Irina first text messages Vicky who is vacationing again in Greece. Luckily she was close to her phone and quickly replied that she didn’t have it. Next suspect: “Ahhhh, Sasha, (our last nanny) I’ll call her” Irina said. I didn’t understand the conversation but noticed that Irina headed for the drawers where we keep important stuff, opened the door and then quickly pulled out the missing passport from the same place she carefully searched 6 minutes prior. Another mystery solved, another crisis avoided, ready to go, I’ll go put my shoes back on.
We kinda knew where the pickup location was so we decided to walk, not far maybe a mile or two. And for about the first time in a month the sun was trying to come out. The weather was looking nice so a little walking without jackets and mud would be pleasant. We walked past the flower sellers, stopped, looked, noted prices and continued. People were all out in their summer outfits, a fresh smell in the air of all things blooming - Ahhhh…..it was a great day in Russia!
OK, where is this place? We arrived at the expected location. Only one other lost guy in the waiting room trying to find out some kind of information from the hundreds of type written pages pasted to the walls everywhere. Looks bad. Checked the office doors, all locked. We knew where we wanted to go; we knew this was the local government office; but we didn’t know if this was right government office since there was no number on the building. Our other lost Russian was not looking for the War Fever Food Distribution, no help there.
So back to the street. Irina heads for the traditional Russian reservoir of local knowledge, the old babushkas. They were out there just sitting on a bench next to the lovely small flower garden surrounded by the dilapidating government building, the new restaurant/gambling casino’s flashing neon signs and the 4 lane highway/tramline. Such babuskas life is to watch everyone and know everything about the their little local neighborhood. If something was happening they would know. Meanwhile I sought an answer that didn’t require using my pitiful communication skills; just walked over to the next building looking for an address number. We both enjoy simultaneous success! It’s the next building over.
Approaching the building I knew were on the right track. Old veteran looking people were trundling out the door with a big full plastic bag in each hand. We entered what looked like some kind of large typical Soviet style revolutionary rally and/or lonely-hearts dance hall. A large, sterile room with gray walls, gray floors, dirty grey-whitish ceiling, dirty windows allowing only a gray-brownish light in. The only color came from two 10 foot high piles of War Fever Food Distribution bags (one bright orange the other black), the 40 dark, dark violet, blue couches. The big room was otherwise empty except for two gray-blackish tables from which the young girls in their high heels and colorful Italian like mini skirts ran the operation.
And so begins the normal “dealing with Russian bureaucratic agencies” ritual. Looking around, Irina asks loudly “sto poslledniy” (who is last in line) and falls in behind the person raising their hand. In the mean time I relaxed on one of couches sitting along the walls; or tried to relax. These were the most uncomfortable couches I had ever sat on; they were more like high-backed, padded punishment pews from a 1650 Puritan church. Designed to ensure that the comrades stayed awake and would jump out of their seat with pleasure to clap and yell their approval of any commissar’s political blather. Or, when converted to the dance hall any boy would prefer dancing with the ugliest girl in the town rather than sit on these horrid couches for long. Luckily I didn’t have to sit for long. The line was short, the documents all in order and quickly reviewed, the Halloween like War Fever Food Distribution gift bags handed out and we were on our way.
“What is in these bags? They must weigh 25 pounds apiece.” I thought.
“I don’t know. Lets look.” Irina excitedly replied as she undid the knot and started pulling stuff out. “Russian macaroni! Oh in Soviet times Mamula loved this with butter and sugar. Oh here is a bag of sugar! Is this a bag of flour, looks like it is so old the printing has faded? What do you have Potrick?”
“Our favorite, two bottles of sunflower oil. We can do lots of healthy, fried stuff now. A bunch of cans in here: peas and somekind of fish. All looks good to me Dear! But it’s kinda heavy, I hope the bags don’t break.” And so Potrick “the mule” who carries the heavy load and Irina start for home.
“But wait! Irina lets make a quick run to the store to get those things I need to finish up the wiring project.” We were only a 10-minute walk from our favorite Russian type “Home Depot” store and had been wanting to get there for the last couple of weeks.
Just a quick detour, in and out. But as we exit the store I noticed Russian summer arrived. “Whoa the sun has finally come out. Irina, I think I will be too hot. I will take off my winter shirt and put it into the food bag.” Standing in the smoking area outside the Russian Home Depot I start shedding some of the excess clothes I had put on when we left our cool apartment. This food hauling his heavy work I feel like a mule!
Actually it is normal for Russian workers to change clothes. Workers arrive at our apartment in their nice street clothes, dig into their tool bags to pull out these really stinky, dirty things, and change into them while they are working. After a hard day sweating on the job they switch back and head home. Of course when standing next to a worker heading home on the metro you don’t know if its’ him, or her, that stinks or the clothes in the bag they are carrying. Makes no difference the impact is the same. So I am sure no one was offended by my changing clothes outside the store.
Approaching the street to catch the trolley home we sadly see our #55 pulling out. “Oh no, it will be another 20 minutes before the next number 55 arrives! My arms are already starting to feel like they are about 5 inches longer. We must take the trolley or my knuckles will be dragging on the ground by the time we walk all the way back home.”
We wait a few minutes and only the ubiquitous #100 trolley, which is not exactly good for us, approaches. “Lets take this one Potrick. We can get off at Engelsa and Ecenina and then catch a bus. That will be quicker than waiting, beside I am getting hungry for lunch, it’s already 2:00.”
“OK, I agree.” So we board the trolley with our 40 pounds of War Fever Food Distribution food and the 8-foot thin, bendy, plastic sticks things for the project. Thank goodness there weren’t many people on it. Well weren’t many people when we started; but we stopped and took on a big load of riders. Of course the old lady conductor comes running up to collect their money and stumbles over my bright orange bag which stuck only slightly out into the aisle. Immediately I am loudly chastised and probably threatened with expulsion from the trolley. I was not in a happy mood and just snarled back “Yeah, yeah, ladna”. I am sure she had no-idea what I said, what language it was, or whether I was just some idiot not to be messed with; she just moved on and took her money.
It’s a quick trip to our stop and as we exit the trolley Irina notices that the big #13 Electric bus, which is the one we wanted, was just leaving. “Irina, now we need to wait or try a mini-bus”. Rumbling up the avenue came a small, rusting, smoking, dented, dirty mini-bus. I could see it was pretty full, but Irina waves it down anyways, pulls on the broken handle, opens the sliding door, disregarding the normal smell of fresh body odor, she looks in and decides there is enough room to squeeze in 2 more people with all their stuff. She was right, but didn’t consider the comfort factor. “Oh well, it’s a short ride. Just don’t poke out anyone’s eye with those sticks you are holding”. I told her
She starts pushing and squeezing between people heading for the back seat that looked open. Once there she discovers the seat is broken, no seat for her and her building equipment. Fortunately I ended up in the last seat by the entrance door and could set my two 40 pound bags of food on the floor of the mini-bus. “Got money honey?” I asked so we could pay the guy to haul us about a quarter of a mile.
“I can’t get at it with all this stuff, here take my purse” Irina said from her half crouched, half standing position standing in the tiny aisle of the crowed mini bus holding on to the greasy seat back for dear life. I hate paying these guys because I have to put on my glasses to figure out what money to give them. I start fumbling around looking for 52 Roubles. The 50 is easy it difficult finding the little 1 Ruble coins. Irina tells me to hurry we are all most there. “Yes dear, I am looking!” Simultaneously I give the driver his money and Irina yells at him to stop so we can get off. We all lurch forward as he hits the breaks. We exit alive, survived another mini-bus ride.
“Well the # 55 trolley would have been more comfortable, but we are almost home” I said. Another block or so and our first mission of the day is accomplished.
Once in the apartment we rip open the War Fever Food Distribution bags, grab the can of peas, open them up. Accompanying our caned peas the cook will today be serving warm leftover buckwheats, which fortunately were 2nd choice for breakfast or the lunch peas would be unaccompanied. “Presto” lunch is served.
Enjoying our relaxed lunch and flexing my sore arms Irina reminds me “we still have no food, we must go to the store!” Yes shes’ right we can’t live long on War Fever Food Distribution food.
“We need so many things, we must go to Okey, they have everything. But Potrick you must help me, it’s so hard to carry those heavy bags.”
“Yes, dear I’ll go but you know I hate that store” I dutifully replied.
Okey does have a much better selection of food than our local stores and it is cheaper, so much for the good news. But it is too far to walk and once inside its’ like the LA Freeway at rush hour. Thousands, at least it seems like thousands, of Russians pushing their shopping carts the same way they drive their cars, fast, rudely, forcing their way into places too small to go, and with lots of crashes. Long lines, people stacked up four or five deep at every vegetable bin fighting over the best beets, workers pushing crates loaded with food ready to run down any unsuspecting shopper in their way, self-help food charge labels machines which never seem to work, and tooooo many choices, we always overbuy there.
Regardless whether the food charge labels machines work or not, don’t even think of trying to check out without weighing your produce and sticking a charge label on the plastic bag. That is the best way to be loudly and publicly humiliated by the a checkout clerk while she takes your unlabeled bag of the most carefully selected, best tomatoes in the bin and slams them on her counter behind her cash register. You’ll never see them again. “Next item please, and hurry, there are others in line waiting to check out.”
Shortly after our recent arrival in Russia we stopped here to pickup a few items. Irina, still suffering from jet lag had not made the transition from shopping in the HEB and shopping in Russia. She forgot to weigh and label her veggies. Eyes drooping, half awake she placed her plastic bag of tomatoes on the counter. “What is this” the checkout babuska screamed “No price label, stupid”.
Irina apologized and told her how she just returned from America and how it is done there America. She was tired and just forgot. The checkout babuska thought she was making up this impossible fantasy; she just couldn’t grasp such a foreign concept where she would have to weigh the veggies at the checkout. How could something like that work? And reminded Irina that she was now back in Russia, as if Irina couldn’t tell the difference.
It was back on the trolley heading for Okey. Looked at my watch, 4:12. “This is going to fun, just in time for the after-work rush hour. At least we have a list and might get out of there without doddeling.”
As we walked in I could see it was just another normal day at the Okey supermarket: a feeding frenzy of somekind going on over by the fruit bins, don’t head that way. First try at getting the weight and charge label machine to work fails of course, didn’t seem to recognize the sale price and charges me double. What to do a long line is waiting behind me; “I’ll try again later” and move on. Pushing my cart back out into the traffic zone I’m too slow, before checking the right lane my cart gets bashed in the side by some speeding shopper. Major traffic jams on the soups aisle detour required. Another sideswipe of my cart by shopper talking on cell phone while driving shopping cart, fortunately no eggs in our cart. Irina gets lost, have to call her on the cell to find a rendezvous point. Find Irina at the yogurt section reading the labels trying to decide which of the 15-20 different types available meet our country-of-origin, fat content, acceptable ingredient content, expiration date, and price requirements.
“Irina, the fish looks good, lets get some. After all it is even healthy!” Looking over the big pile of supposedly Norwegian trout laying on a wooden table in ice they seemed to be fresh. But then I have never bought whole fish before too messy to deal with. I seemed to remember that clear eyes, red gills and no stink were some items to check. These seemed to pass the test.
“Potrick you stand here, I will get in line and when it is my turn I will tell the lady to go to the table and you will show her which fish we want. Understand?”
“Of course dear, but why can’t you walk back and point out your favorite fish?” Too much trouble I guess, so I stood there waiting as I watched Irina move closer to the babuska taking orders.
Standing there dodging the crates of food coming out of the storage area another lady moved over to the adjacent salmon fillet section. I noticed out of the side of my eye that it looked like she was bending down getting her nose right up to the fish. When she noticed I was watching her she jumped back up and I smiling asked “eta horasho?” (are they good?). Wondering who is this old guy with such a strange accent, she replied “da ya tak duma” (yes, I think so). I didn’t have the heart or the vocabulary to tell her that we have reliable reports from good sources that the fillets are always made from the old fish which weren’t bought before their eyes glazed over, their gills dried out and their bodies became stiff as a log. Vicky told us to never buy a fish without a head. Easy for her to say, she knows how to easily clean fish, I don’t.
“Opps its’ Irina turn to order, quick find a good looking trout!” I’m franticly checking as best I can without touching the fish and then smelling fishy all the way home when I hear Irina shouting something. I look up and notice that the service babushka has walked over to some container behind the counter, pulled out some who knows how old of a fish, slips into to 3 plastic bags (to prevent the smell from getting out I presume) and slaps it down on the counter. I guess its’ not up to me to pick a good one.
When I get back to Irina she was upset, but what to do. The service babushka wouldn’t even let her look at the fish. Just said if you don’t like it give it back. Well from what I could tell peering through 3 plastic bags it’s eyes seemed OK, we’ll just keep it.
“OK I think we have spent enough time in Okey, dear. And the bags are going to be heavy. That’s almost everything on our list that we need from here. Lets go, I’m getting tired.” And we head for the check out counter. “Wonder-of-wonders, we find a clerk with no line!! She must just have come on duty, quick.” I am thinking things are going OK. Then a green pepper shows up in a plastic bag with no charge label. A little chastisement from the checker, guess she just started and wasn’t up to speed yet. “Opps how many packeets (Russian plastic bags for carrying your food) do we need, better be only two since I have only two arms to carry them in”. And we throw two bags in with the food since one must buy their grocery bags, unless you remember to bring your old ones from home, which we didn’t of course. I load the bags, and Irina fumbles with the money to pay, providing the exact small change always speeds things along and is about the only thing that might make the checkout girl smile.
So Potrick the mule is loaded down again with pounds and pounds of food headed for the public transportation back to the apartment. One more gauntlet to run: the street venders around the mini-bus loading zone. It’s hard for Irina to walk past without looking, touching and maybe buying something from them. “Potrick, maybe we need some strawberries? These look so good!“
“Irina, is it strawberry season, we don’t want to buy stuff that has been stored in the gas warehouses for 6 months, they look awfully red and large, maybe too much fertilizer or growth hormones.”
“NO, the strawberry season is beginning, these might be OK. And these guys say they have Azerbaijani tomatoes. Lets buy!” How could she resist such Southern, as in Azerbaijani, charm?
“OK, dear. Pile some more into my bags”.
Irina orders a half-kilo (that’s only another pound, nothing for a food mule) and the lady starts digging into her strawberries piled behind the table not the fresh, beautiful, sweet smelling ones on her display table. “Stop!!” Irina exclaims, “let me see the bag. I don’t want these” as she starts picking out the rotten ones slipped in and starts filling her bag with the beautiful strawberries from the display table. The lady frowns at this, but weighs, calculates the price and Irina pays.
As we leave Irina just shrugs her shoulders and tells me “Southerners will always cheat you a little, it’s their nature”. Her father grew up in Baku, he knew their character, he taught his daughter well.
Getting off the minibus at our stop we head for the next food supply facility, the barnyard. Not really a barnyard any more, used to kinda be when I first came. But now its’ just a few of the remaining proprietors working out of a small store; even less than a store, for some it’s only a door with a service window in front of what would be called a “walk-in closet” in most places and small display of the veggies in the windows beside the door. Another Southerner operation of course.
Here we buy the heavy stuff like potatoes, carrots, onions, red beets all by the kilo. My first visit was a major blunder. I stupidly bought only 3 onions, just enough for our evening needs. Upon returning I was severely chastised for not buying at least a kilo or two. “We always need onions” rang in my ears ever since.
Irina purchases another 4 or 5 kilos of veggies, piles them onto mule Potrick, we take a couple of steps and then turns to me with a curious expression on her face. “We were cheated!” She exclaimed! “There is no way that those potatoes and all cost 150 Rubles.”
“Quick! Lets go back and straighten it out.” I said
“No, it won’t do now. I had to tell him before we left the window. Just another Southerner, they always cheat you. But I don’t mind so much that is their national character, my father told me so. They are a kind of ‘cheerful cheaters’. I go to our stores for everything left on the list.” And Irina headed towards Oasis and possibly on to Petarichka (the 5 Store), our smaller, local grocery stores.
In the mean time I am lugging the heavy stuff to the apartment door. Only a 100 or so meters to go, I think can make it. But the 2 flights of stairs could be a problem. I make it and the unloading begins. About the time I finish putting stuff away, Irina arrives with the last of the groceries. Potrick is not the only one that Mule’n food; it is an equal opportunity, family entertainment activity.
7:30 pm as I relax my tired body with a cool refreshment, I thought. “Sometimes it would be nice to have a car, no more mule’n food, might not spend all day going to grocery stores, huummm.” Snapping back to reality “Nope, not here. Mule’n food is good exercise and what would I do with that extra time?”
“Yes dear, I’ll be right there to see what we might have for breakfast.” Another day, another crisis, I’m sure there has to be something we can have.” Opening the refrigerator with ease and scavenging around I saw no milk (so the kasha option is out), no yogurt, no cottage cheese, no bread, no fruit, no pirogue, a little remaining Italian sausage. “Yeah there isn’t much here Irina.” Then I spied the eggs, we won’t starve or have to eat sausage, ginger root, beets, buckwheats, carrots, cucumbers, or hotdogs and ketchup this morning!!! “Irina how about a cheese omelet?” I yelled.
“That would be ok”
So I opened the refrigerator with ease and started gathering the makings for the omelet.
I digress but you might wonder why “I opened the refrigerator with ease”. Well 2 years ago when we returned to Russia we were told about “the accident”. Somehow the handle that opens the refrigerator got knocked off the door. I knew when be bought this “top-of-the-line German production single compressor refrigerator” that the weak link was the handle design. And my fears were realized; all that remained of the handle was an inch broken plastic detruding from the door. One could still open the door by pulling on this plastic stub. But if the door was shut just before you again attempted to open it the sealing system that sucks the door closed required some real leveraging to get the door back open. For two years we called and searched everywhere trying to get the problem fixed. However it seemed the service people for this refrigerator had all left Russia and returned to Germany. But then before returning to Russia this time Vicky, who also got tired of trying to open the door when she was over visiting Mamula, found the parts supplier and ordered the handle. A quick three months later we received the parts and I got it installed, not bad for Russia. Of course they cheated us and said we had to buy both handles, the one for the frig which was broken and the one for the freezer which was OK. So I guess we just have a back handle in readiness for the next accident. But now it truly is a small pleasure to open the refrigerator door with one finger and peruse around for something to eat.
Back to the breakfast crisis; hidden back on the top shelf I found tortillas, we had a little cheese and some hot peppers so it was going to be a “South Texas Breakfast Burrito” morning. For just scrounging around for anything to eat it was delicious. We enjoyed a rare treat and discussed what we were going to do about solving our real food crisis.
(Irina’s comment: all Pat writes is so much exaggerated, it is all just for fun and interesting reading but not the exact reality of life of course)
“Potrick, Mamula got this letter about a food package for veterans. Maybe we will go see what it is and get it.”
Sounded like some kind of Russian meals-on-wheels without the wheels, but what the heck, it’s free lets check it out. “OK, lets go see what they have. By the way, what is this for some kind of monthly giveaway they just started?” I asked.
“No, they are just doing it to celebrate the start of the Great Patriotic War. Probably some politician’s trick.”
“That’s weird,” I thought. Generally they celebrate the end of the war and victory, not the starting of wars. “Irina lets see there was the 1st war with Germany, the war with the Japanese, probably 10 wars with the Turkish, the Napoleonic war, Peter the Great’s war with Sweden, somekind of little war with the Finns. If we get food packages for the start of every war we could get a package every month or more, that could really cut down our food expenses!!!” Unfortunately Irina didn’t think that the politicians would go that far. Oh well lets get what we can and we got ready to go.
I was waiting at the door with my shoes on ready to go (since slippers are the only acceptable foot wear worn in the apartment the last thing before leaving is to dawn one’s shoes at the door), “Irina, are we going or what?” I yelled.
“Potrick, I can’t find Mamula’s passport! I’ve looked everywhere. Maybe it was stolen!”
A couple of nanny’s ago we had one that stole Mamula’s “workbook”, that is we think she stole because it has been missing ever since. A person’s “workbook” is one step above or one step below one’s passport, depending upon what you need at the time. The workbook is an old Soviet record of every place and length of time you worked. In Soviet days and up until it was recently replaced with computer records it was very, very important because your pension was calculated from its entries. Its loss was not so terrible since Mamula wasn’t going to add any more work time in the book and her pension was already on the pay records. But whoever took it might also be able to somehow claim benefits under Mamula’s pension. Her passport was much more important to us now since any time you have to interface with the bureaucracy the passport must be presented.
Mentally rounding up the usual list of suspects, Irina first text messages Vicky who is vacationing again in Greece. Luckily she was close to her phone and quickly replied that she didn’t have it. Next suspect: “Ahhhh, Sasha, (our last nanny) I’ll call her” Irina said. I didn’t understand the conversation but noticed that Irina headed for the drawers where we keep important stuff, opened the door and then quickly pulled out the missing passport from the same place she carefully searched 6 minutes prior. Another mystery solved, another crisis avoided, ready to go, I’ll go put my shoes back on.
We kinda knew where the pickup location was so we decided to walk, not far maybe a mile or two. And for about the first time in a month the sun was trying to come out. The weather was looking nice so a little walking without jackets and mud would be pleasant. We walked past the flower sellers, stopped, looked, noted prices and continued. People were all out in their summer outfits, a fresh smell in the air of all things blooming - Ahhhh…..it was a great day in Russia!
OK, where is this place? We arrived at the expected location. Only one other lost guy in the waiting room trying to find out some kind of information from the hundreds of type written pages pasted to the walls everywhere. Looks bad. Checked the office doors, all locked. We knew where we wanted to go; we knew this was the local government office; but we didn’t know if this was right government office since there was no number on the building. Our other lost Russian was not looking for the War Fever Food Distribution, no help there.
So back to the street. Irina heads for the traditional Russian reservoir of local knowledge, the old babushkas. They were out there just sitting on a bench next to the lovely small flower garden surrounded by the dilapidating government building, the new restaurant/gambling casino’s flashing neon signs and the 4 lane highway/tramline. Such babuskas life is to watch everyone and know everything about the their little local neighborhood. If something was happening they would know. Meanwhile I sought an answer that didn’t require using my pitiful communication skills; just walked over to the next building looking for an address number. We both enjoy simultaneous success! It’s the next building over.
Approaching the building I knew were on the right track. Old veteran looking people were trundling out the door with a big full plastic bag in each hand. We entered what looked like some kind of large typical Soviet style revolutionary rally and/or lonely-hearts dance hall. A large, sterile room with gray walls, gray floors, dirty grey-whitish ceiling, dirty windows allowing only a gray-brownish light in. The only color came from two 10 foot high piles of War Fever Food Distribution bags (one bright orange the other black), the 40 dark, dark violet, blue couches. The big room was otherwise empty except for two gray-blackish tables from which the young girls in their high heels and colorful Italian like mini skirts ran the operation.
And so begins the normal “dealing with Russian bureaucratic agencies” ritual. Looking around, Irina asks loudly “sto poslledniy” (who is last in line) and falls in behind the person raising their hand. In the mean time I relaxed on one of couches sitting along the walls; or tried to relax. These were the most uncomfortable couches I had ever sat on; they were more like high-backed, padded punishment pews from a 1650 Puritan church. Designed to ensure that the comrades stayed awake and would jump out of their seat with pleasure to clap and yell their approval of any commissar’s political blather. Or, when converted to the dance hall any boy would prefer dancing with the ugliest girl in the town rather than sit on these horrid couches for long. Luckily I didn’t have to sit for long. The line was short, the documents all in order and quickly reviewed, the Halloween like War Fever Food Distribution gift bags handed out and we were on our way.
“What is in these bags? They must weigh 25 pounds apiece.” I thought.
“I don’t know. Lets look.” Irina excitedly replied as she undid the knot and started pulling stuff out. “Russian macaroni! Oh in Soviet times Mamula loved this with butter and sugar. Oh here is a bag of sugar! Is this a bag of flour, looks like it is so old the printing has faded? What do you have Potrick?”
“Our favorite, two bottles of sunflower oil. We can do lots of healthy, fried stuff now. A bunch of cans in here: peas and somekind of fish. All looks good to me Dear! But it’s kinda heavy, I hope the bags don’t break.” And so Potrick “the mule” who carries the heavy load and Irina start for home.
“But wait! Irina lets make a quick run to the store to get those things I need to finish up the wiring project.” We were only a 10-minute walk from our favorite Russian type “Home Depot” store and had been wanting to get there for the last couple of weeks.
Just a quick detour, in and out. But as we exit the store I noticed Russian summer arrived. “Whoa the sun has finally come out. Irina, I think I will be too hot. I will take off my winter shirt and put it into the food bag.” Standing in the smoking area outside the Russian Home Depot I start shedding some of the excess clothes I had put on when we left our cool apartment. This food hauling his heavy work I feel like a mule!
Actually it is normal for Russian workers to change clothes. Workers arrive at our apartment in their nice street clothes, dig into their tool bags to pull out these really stinky, dirty things, and change into them while they are working. After a hard day sweating on the job they switch back and head home. Of course when standing next to a worker heading home on the metro you don’t know if its’ him, or her, that stinks or the clothes in the bag they are carrying. Makes no difference the impact is the same. So I am sure no one was offended by my changing clothes outside the store.
Approaching the street to catch the trolley home we sadly see our #55 pulling out. “Oh no, it will be another 20 minutes before the next number 55 arrives! My arms are already starting to feel like they are about 5 inches longer. We must take the trolley or my knuckles will be dragging on the ground by the time we walk all the way back home.”
We wait a few minutes and only the ubiquitous #100 trolley, which is not exactly good for us, approaches. “Lets take this one Potrick. We can get off at Engelsa and Ecenina and then catch a bus. That will be quicker than waiting, beside I am getting hungry for lunch, it’s already 2:00.”
“OK, I agree.” So we board the trolley with our 40 pounds of War Fever Food Distribution food and the 8-foot thin, bendy, plastic sticks things for the project. Thank goodness there weren’t many people on it. Well weren’t many people when we started; but we stopped and took on a big load of riders. Of course the old lady conductor comes running up to collect their money and stumbles over my bright orange bag which stuck only slightly out into the aisle. Immediately I am loudly chastised and probably threatened with expulsion from the trolley. I was not in a happy mood and just snarled back “Yeah, yeah, ladna”. I am sure she had no-idea what I said, what language it was, or whether I was just some idiot not to be messed with; she just moved on and took her money.
It’s a quick trip to our stop and as we exit the trolley Irina notices that the big #13 Electric bus, which is the one we wanted, was just leaving. “Irina, now we need to wait or try a mini-bus”. Rumbling up the avenue came a small, rusting, smoking, dented, dirty mini-bus. I could see it was pretty full, but Irina waves it down anyways, pulls on the broken handle, opens the sliding door, disregarding the normal smell of fresh body odor, she looks in and decides there is enough room to squeeze in 2 more people with all their stuff. She was right, but didn’t consider the comfort factor. “Oh well, it’s a short ride. Just don’t poke out anyone’s eye with those sticks you are holding”. I told her
She starts pushing and squeezing between people heading for the back seat that looked open. Once there she discovers the seat is broken, no seat for her and her building equipment. Fortunately I ended up in the last seat by the entrance door and could set my two 40 pound bags of food on the floor of the mini-bus. “Got money honey?” I asked so we could pay the guy to haul us about a quarter of a mile.
“I can’t get at it with all this stuff, here take my purse” Irina said from her half crouched, half standing position standing in the tiny aisle of the crowed mini bus holding on to the greasy seat back for dear life. I hate paying these guys because I have to put on my glasses to figure out what money to give them. I start fumbling around looking for 52 Roubles. The 50 is easy it difficult finding the little 1 Ruble coins. Irina tells me to hurry we are all most there. “Yes dear, I am looking!” Simultaneously I give the driver his money and Irina yells at him to stop so we can get off. We all lurch forward as he hits the breaks. We exit alive, survived another mini-bus ride.
“Well the # 55 trolley would have been more comfortable, but we are almost home” I said. Another block or so and our first mission of the day is accomplished.
Once in the apartment we rip open the War Fever Food Distribution bags, grab the can of peas, open them up. Accompanying our caned peas the cook will today be serving warm leftover buckwheats, which fortunately were 2nd choice for breakfast or the lunch peas would be unaccompanied. “Presto” lunch is served.
Enjoying our relaxed lunch and flexing my sore arms Irina reminds me “we still have no food, we must go to the store!” Yes shes’ right we can’t live long on War Fever Food Distribution food.
“We need so many things, we must go to Okey, they have everything. But Potrick you must help me, it’s so hard to carry those heavy bags.”
“Yes, dear I’ll go but you know I hate that store” I dutifully replied.
Okey does have a much better selection of food than our local stores and it is cheaper, so much for the good news. But it is too far to walk and once inside its’ like the LA Freeway at rush hour. Thousands, at least it seems like thousands, of Russians pushing their shopping carts the same way they drive their cars, fast, rudely, forcing their way into places too small to go, and with lots of crashes. Long lines, people stacked up four or five deep at every vegetable bin fighting over the best beets, workers pushing crates loaded with food ready to run down any unsuspecting shopper in their way, self-help food charge labels machines which never seem to work, and tooooo many choices, we always overbuy there.
Regardless whether the food charge labels machines work or not, don’t even think of trying to check out without weighing your produce and sticking a charge label on the plastic bag. That is the best way to be loudly and publicly humiliated by the a checkout clerk while she takes your unlabeled bag of the most carefully selected, best tomatoes in the bin and slams them on her counter behind her cash register. You’ll never see them again. “Next item please, and hurry, there are others in line waiting to check out.”
Shortly after our recent arrival in Russia we stopped here to pickup a few items. Irina, still suffering from jet lag had not made the transition from shopping in the HEB and shopping in Russia. She forgot to weigh and label her veggies. Eyes drooping, half awake she placed her plastic bag of tomatoes on the counter. “What is this” the checkout babuska screamed “No price label, stupid”.
Irina apologized and told her how she just returned from America and how it is done there America. She was tired and just forgot. The checkout babuska thought she was making up this impossible fantasy; she just couldn’t grasp such a foreign concept where she would have to weigh the veggies at the checkout. How could something like that work? And reminded Irina that she was now back in Russia, as if Irina couldn’t tell the difference.
It was back on the trolley heading for Okey. Looked at my watch, 4:12. “This is going to fun, just in time for the after-work rush hour. At least we have a list and might get out of there without doddeling.”
As we walked in I could see it was just another normal day at the Okey supermarket: a feeding frenzy of somekind going on over by the fruit bins, don’t head that way. First try at getting the weight and charge label machine to work fails of course, didn’t seem to recognize the sale price and charges me double. What to do a long line is waiting behind me; “I’ll try again later” and move on. Pushing my cart back out into the traffic zone I’m too slow, before checking the right lane my cart gets bashed in the side by some speeding shopper. Major traffic jams on the soups aisle detour required. Another sideswipe of my cart by shopper talking on cell phone while driving shopping cart, fortunately no eggs in our cart. Irina gets lost, have to call her on the cell to find a rendezvous point. Find Irina at the yogurt section reading the labels trying to decide which of the 15-20 different types available meet our country-of-origin, fat content, acceptable ingredient content, expiration date, and price requirements.
“Irina, the fish looks good, lets get some. After all it is even healthy!” Looking over the big pile of supposedly Norwegian trout laying on a wooden table in ice they seemed to be fresh. But then I have never bought whole fish before too messy to deal with. I seemed to remember that clear eyes, red gills and no stink were some items to check. These seemed to pass the test.
“Potrick you stand here, I will get in line and when it is my turn I will tell the lady to go to the table and you will show her which fish we want. Understand?”
“Of course dear, but why can’t you walk back and point out your favorite fish?” Too much trouble I guess, so I stood there waiting as I watched Irina move closer to the babuska taking orders.
Standing there dodging the crates of food coming out of the storage area another lady moved over to the adjacent salmon fillet section. I noticed out of the side of my eye that it looked like she was bending down getting her nose right up to the fish. When she noticed I was watching her she jumped back up and I smiling asked “eta horasho?” (are they good?). Wondering who is this old guy with such a strange accent, she replied “da ya tak duma” (yes, I think so). I didn’t have the heart or the vocabulary to tell her that we have reliable reports from good sources that the fillets are always made from the old fish which weren’t bought before their eyes glazed over, their gills dried out and their bodies became stiff as a log. Vicky told us to never buy a fish without a head. Easy for her to say, she knows how to easily clean fish, I don’t.
“Opps its’ Irina turn to order, quick find a good looking trout!” I’m franticly checking as best I can without touching the fish and then smelling fishy all the way home when I hear Irina shouting something. I look up and notice that the service babushka has walked over to some container behind the counter, pulled out some who knows how old of a fish, slips into to 3 plastic bags (to prevent the smell from getting out I presume) and slaps it down on the counter. I guess its’ not up to me to pick a good one.
When I get back to Irina she was upset, but what to do. The service babushka wouldn’t even let her look at the fish. Just said if you don’t like it give it back. Well from what I could tell peering through 3 plastic bags it’s eyes seemed OK, we’ll just keep it.
“OK I think we have spent enough time in Okey, dear. And the bags are going to be heavy. That’s almost everything on our list that we need from here. Lets go, I’m getting tired.” And we head for the check out counter. “Wonder-of-wonders, we find a clerk with no line!! She must just have come on duty, quick.” I am thinking things are going OK. Then a green pepper shows up in a plastic bag with no charge label. A little chastisement from the checker, guess she just started and wasn’t up to speed yet. “Opps how many packeets (Russian plastic bags for carrying your food) do we need, better be only two since I have only two arms to carry them in”. And we throw two bags in with the food since one must buy their grocery bags, unless you remember to bring your old ones from home, which we didn’t of course. I load the bags, and Irina fumbles with the money to pay, providing the exact small change always speeds things along and is about the only thing that might make the checkout girl smile.
So Potrick the mule is loaded down again with pounds and pounds of food headed for the public transportation back to the apartment. One more gauntlet to run: the street venders around the mini-bus loading zone. It’s hard for Irina to walk past without looking, touching and maybe buying something from them. “Potrick, maybe we need some strawberries? These look so good!“
“Irina, is it strawberry season, we don’t want to buy stuff that has been stored in the gas warehouses for 6 months, they look awfully red and large, maybe too much fertilizer or growth hormones.”
“NO, the strawberry season is beginning, these might be OK. And these guys say they have Azerbaijani tomatoes. Lets buy!” How could she resist such Southern, as in Azerbaijani, charm?
“OK, dear. Pile some more into my bags”.
Irina orders a half-kilo (that’s only another pound, nothing for a food mule) and the lady starts digging into her strawberries piled behind the table not the fresh, beautiful, sweet smelling ones on her display table. “Stop!!” Irina exclaims, “let me see the bag. I don’t want these” as she starts picking out the rotten ones slipped in and starts filling her bag with the beautiful strawberries from the display table. The lady frowns at this, but weighs, calculates the price and Irina pays.
As we leave Irina just shrugs her shoulders and tells me “Southerners will always cheat you a little, it’s their nature”. Her father grew up in Baku, he knew their character, he taught his daughter well.
Getting off the minibus at our stop we head for the next food supply facility, the barnyard. Not really a barnyard any more, used to kinda be when I first came. But now its’ just a few of the remaining proprietors working out of a small store; even less than a store, for some it’s only a door with a service window in front of what would be called a “walk-in closet” in most places and small display of the veggies in the windows beside the door. Another Southerner operation of course.
Here we buy the heavy stuff like potatoes, carrots, onions, red beets all by the kilo. My first visit was a major blunder. I stupidly bought only 3 onions, just enough for our evening needs. Upon returning I was severely chastised for not buying at least a kilo or two. “We always need onions” rang in my ears ever since.
Irina purchases another 4 or 5 kilos of veggies, piles them onto mule Potrick, we take a couple of steps and then turns to me with a curious expression on her face. “We were cheated!” She exclaimed! “There is no way that those potatoes and all cost 150 Rubles.”
“Quick! Lets go back and straighten it out.” I said
“No, it won’t do now. I had to tell him before we left the window. Just another Southerner, they always cheat you. But I don’t mind so much that is their national character, my father told me so. They are a kind of ‘cheerful cheaters’. I go to our stores for everything left on the list.” And Irina headed towards Oasis and possibly on to Petarichka (the 5 Store), our smaller, local grocery stores.
In the mean time I am lugging the heavy stuff to the apartment door. Only a 100 or so meters to go, I think can make it. But the 2 flights of stairs could be a problem. I make it and the unloading begins. About the time I finish putting stuff away, Irina arrives with the last of the groceries. Potrick is not the only one that Mule’n food; it is an equal opportunity, family entertainment activity.
7:30 pm as I relax my tired body with a cool refreshment, I thought. “Sometimes it would be nice to have a car, no more mule’n food, might not spend all day going to grocery stores, huummm.” Snapping back to reality “Nope, not here. Mule’n food is good exercise and what would I do with that extra time?”
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